


The Dying-of-Boredom Detective

by PipMer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Rampant Domesticity, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-19
Updated: 2012-05-19
Packaged: 2017-11-05 14:48:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/pseuds/PipMer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is ill.  John deals with his demanding and childish behaviour.  Really, what’s new?  Established relationship.  Shmoop and sex, in that order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [holyfant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/holyfant/gifts).



> Here, have a bit of fluff to make up for all the ridiculous angst I’ve been writing lately.
> 
> This is for holyfant. Because her writing induced me to try my hand at Sherlock/John slash, which I’ve never done before. And now I can blame her if it falls flat. Because I really don’t know what I’m doing.
> 
> Disclaimer: Sherlock’s views on Robert Downey Jr. and Benedict Cumberbatch are not my own. Obviously.
> 
> Spoilers: None, unless you don’t know Benedict Cumberbatch portrays Sherlock on TV. If you don’t know that, there’s nothing I can do for you.

The day had literally flown by, thanks to all the insignificant, petty sicknesses that people dragged themselves to the clinic for.  John was grateful for the distraction which allowed him to think about something other than his flatmate.  Speaking of which, he hadn’t heard from him in…

His phone buzzed.  Ah, there it was.  John grinned as he thumbed open the text message. 

  
**When you go to Tesco, pick up some hydrochloric acid.  And some ammonium sulphate.**

John let out a long-suffering sigh.  He texted back:

_You aren’t meant to be doing experiments.  You’re meant to be resting.  Besides, you know very well that you can’t get that stuff at Tesco._

One… two… three…

**Then go to Bart’s and get it.**

_No.  No experiments._

**Bored.**

_So watch telly.  Read a book.  Go online and leave scathing remarks on science forums._

**Boring.**

**I don’t leave ‘scathing remarks’, I leave cogent rebuttals to frankly ridiculous arguments.**

John ignored this.

_Have you checked your temperature lately?_

**Yes, doctor.  An hour ago.**

_And?_

In the pause before Sherlock’s reply, John could swear he heard an irritated huff.

**39.2**

John frowned.

_That’s way too high.  How are you sending off such coherent texts?_

**Unlike some people, the workings of my brain aren’t dictated by the whims of my transport.**

John rolled his eyes.  Sherlock was forever denying the connection between mind and body.  As if one could separate the two.  For a scientist, he came perilously close to being a dualist.

_Your brain is part of your transport, idiot.  You need to get that fever down.  When did you last take a _paracetamol?__

**Six hours ago.**

_Take two more.  And wipe yourself down with a wet, cold rag.  I’ll be home in a couple of hours._

**Fine.**

Sighing, John put his phone in his pocket and got back to work.

 

&&&&&&&

 

John arrived home almost exactly two hours later, struggling up the seventeen steps with four grocery bags full of staples, minus the chemicals Sherlock had requested.  He quietly put everything away before he ventured out into the living area.  As he expected, Sherlock was sprawled across the entire length of the sofa, wet cloth held to his forehead, looking thoroughly miserable.   
  
His flatmate shot a disgruntled glare in his direction.  John shook his head.

“None of that,” he chided, walking over to the prone man. He leaned down and placed a soft kiss to Sherlock’s lips as he gently skimmed his hands over his friend’s face.

“Fever seems to be down,” he said as he pressed a glass of water into Sherlock’s free hand.

“You shouldn’t do that if you don’t want to catch this,” Sherlock croaked hoarsely.

“What, kiss you?  Sherlock, I live with you.  I was exposed before you even started showing symptoms.”  
  
  
“Better safe than sorry.”

John smirked.  “Are you saying you don’t like my kisses?”

Sherlock frowned.  “Don’t be an idiot.  If you get sick, who’s going to take care of me?”

John rolled his eyes.  “Who indeed?  No one else loves you like I do.”

Sherlock looked distinctly uncomfortable.  “John, I…”

John waved him off.  “I know, I know.  It’s still true, whether or not you say it.  Drink some of that water.  Do you want a lozenge?  Sounds like the virus really did a number on your throat.”

Sherlock shook his head as he took a sip.  “It doesn’t hurt.”

“Have you been able to eat anything?”

Sherlock nodded.  “I had some chicken noodle soup about an hour ago, with some crackers.”

“Good.  I’m not hungry yet.”  John turned to walk back into the kitchen.  “I’ll go get the DVD’s Sarah lent me. You get to choose what we watch first.”

Sherlock perked up.  “You brought home some movies?”

“Yes.  _Iron Man_ and _Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy._ I know you haven’t seen either of those.”  John disappeared into the kitchen. 

Sherlock scowled.  “What is it with you and Robert Downey Jr.?  The man can’t act to save his life.  And Benedict Cumberbatch is funny-looking.”

John snorted as he returned, movies in hand.  “First of all, RDJ is a damn sexy man, and a fine actor to boot.  And Benedict Cumberbatch is not ‘funny-looking’.  In fact, he reminds me of you.”

“You can’t be serious.  His face is horsey, and his limbs are all…gangly.    And his hair!  All wrong for his skin tone.”

John felt a giggle burst forth, and he was helpless to contain it.  He braced himself on the arm of his chair, doubled over in mirth as his laughter bubbled out of him.  Sherlock stared at him as if he had just grown a second head.

“Oh god… talk about the.. pot calling the.. kettle black..”  Tears streamed down John’s face as he gave up the battle and slid to the floor, back against the chair and his hand clutching his belly, trying to contain the laughter-generated ache.  The scandalised look on Sherlock’s face just set off a fresh round of giggles. 

“Really, John.  Do try and act your age.  You’re almost forty-two years old, too old to be acting like some hysterical teenager.  Have some dignity.”

“Sorry…sorry,” John gasped, wiping the tears from his face.  “I can’t help it.  You just have no clue how funny you are sometimes.”

Sherlock looked affronted.  “I only speak the truth.”

“Of course you do.”  John stumbled gracelessly to his feet.  “So… which flick shall we put in first?” 

Sherlock unsteadily pushed himself up into a sitting position, wincing as he did so. “I don’t really care one way or the other.  You choose.”

John threw a look of concern his way.  “You alright?”

“Fine.  Just muscle aches, is all.  It’s better than it was.” 

John grimaced in sympathy.  “I’m sorry.”

“What for?  It’s not your fault I got sick.”

“I can still empathise.” 

Sherlock shrugged.

John smiled.  “Alright.  Let’s do it then.  _Iron Man_ first.”   He slid the DVD into the player, then walked over to the sofa.   
  
“Budge over,” he said, flapping his hands. 

Sherlock scooted over.  “Are you sure you want to be so close to me?”

John gave him a suggestive leer.  “I always want to be so close to you.  The closer the better.”

Sherlock laughed, his rich, deep baritone laugh.  His first laugh in days.  John grinned as he plopped down and plucked up the remote.  “Ready?”

Sherlock nodded.  “Ready.”

John turned the movie on, then adjusted himself to bring an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders.  He pressed a kiss to his friend’s temple as Sherlock snuggled into John’s side, laying his head on his shoulder. 

The first thirty minutes or so of the movie were spent in typical Sherlock-John fashion, bickering over how realistic the plot was and how convincing (or not) Robert Downey Jr.’s performance was.  After that, the comments from the detective petered out rather rapidly, until about an hour in, faint snores could be heard against John’s ear.  John smiled to himself as he shut the movie off.

He gently shook his friend.  “Time to get you to bed, Sherlock,” he said softly as Sherlock blinked awake.  “You’ll be more comfortable in bed than you will be out here.  Come on.” 

He helped an unsteady Sherlock to his feet.  “Where will you sleep?” Sherlock mumbled less than coherently as John led him to their room.

“Where I always sleep, you daft git.  With you.”

“Oh.”

Amusement coloured John’s voice.  “You’re feeling well enough where I don’t think I’ll disturb you.”  He put a hand to Sherlock’s forehead.  “Your fever’s gone down considerably.  I think we can forego the pills for now.” 

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock sighed as John lowered him onto the bed and under the covers.

“You’re welcome.  I’m staying up for a bit longer.  I need to eat something, write up the blog for our last case, and then I’ll join you.”

“MmmHmm,” was the response as Sherlock curled in on himself, latching onto John’s pillow and burying his face in it.  John thought he looked rather adorable.

John leaned down and placed a kiss on Sherlock’s forehead, smoothing back his unruly curls.  His heart skipped a beat as he watched Sherlock’s face relax into sleep.  Warmth and something unnameable bloomed in his chest and threatened to overwhelm him. 

Before he could further analyse the feeling, John left his friend’s side and quietly closed the bedroom door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter notes: Translation of Italian and French found at the end of the chapter. Blatant use of Google Translate for the Italian bits; please let me know if anything's incorrect.

****He woke to warm hands stroking his stomach and soft kisses on the back of his neck.  He arched back into the familiar touch, breathing “Sherlock”, as he rolled over to face his bed mate.  His sleepy eyes sought out his friend’s features in the dark; the moonlight entering the window caressed Sherlock’s face and highlighted his lust-filled grey eyes.  John cupped his face in his hands, thumbs gently stroking those gorgeous cheekbones.  His eyes fluttered shut as he brought his mouth to Sherlock’s, revelling in the utterly unique taste of him.   They kissed, slow and lazy, tongues languidly dancing.

It had been over a month since they had last had sex, what with the frenzy of a challenging case, and then Sherlock’s illness.  John was just as human as the next man; he wanted Sherlock badly, but he was a good doctor and a good friend, so he pulled away reluctantly.  He rubbed his hands down Sherlock’s arms and asked “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Sherlock bit out, “Now continue, please.”  He dropped his voice to a sinfully low register.  “I want you.”

John chuckled.  “Well, you don’t seem to have a fever anymore, so…”

He was abruptly cut off by the pressure of Sherlock’s lips on his.  Swallowing his response, John melted into his friend’s embrace, fingers tangling in Sherlock’s hair. 

What started out as tender snogging rapidly became more desperate as the heat between them built up.  Sherlock tore his lips away from John’s and bestowed sloppy kisses along his jaw and down his neck.  Groaning, John tilted his head back to give the detective better access, tugging not-so-gently on his curls. 

“Sherlock,” he whispered, “God, yes, please, I need you…”

“Tu sei incredibile, sei fantastico ...,” Sherlock breathed into his shoulder, hands slipping inside the back of John’s pyjamas.  He grabbed John’s arse and squeezed, pulling his body forwards until there was no space between them anymore.

John inhaled sharply.  He loved it when Sherlock spoke to him during sex in foreign languages, especially Italian.  Heat pooled in his belly as arousal overtook all his senses. 

Sherlock continued on as he peeled John’s bottoms off.  "Non sai quello che mi fai.  Non c'è mai stato nessuno come te, nessuno mi ha mai amato come fai tu ....”

John lifted his hips so that Sherlock could finish undressing him.  Bottoms discarded, Sherlock shifted himself so that he was looming over John, supporting himself with his hands on either side of John’s head.  His grey eyes intently pierced John’s blue ones; it seemed like he was trying to force his thoughts into John’s brain, willing him to understand as he said, “E non ho mai amato nessuno come amo te.”

John smiled up at him.  “I wish I knew what you were saying.”

Sherlock stared at him with an unreadable expression.  He briefly moved away as he divested himself of his sleepwear, then plastered himself on top of John, groins connecting with a jolt. 

“Deduce it,” Sherlock growled as he rocked slowly against John, eliciting an aroused hitch of breath.  “Use the evidence of your senses.  What conclusion can you draw?”

John swallowed.  “Tell me more,” he begged.

“Ti voglio,” Sherlock said.  He lowered his mouth to John’s ear, and breathed, “Ho bisogno di te.” Then he gently nipped the lobe, and whispered, “Ti amo.”

That voice, that rich, deep voice, was almost enough by itself to make John come.  Combined with the gentle rocking of their hips and the friction between their groins, he was on the razor’s edge; just the slightest nudge would send him falling.  But he didn’t want it to end just yet, so he bit his lip and tried to rein it in for just a little longer.  He loved being here with Sherlock, teetering on the brink, then pulling back, only to get just a little bit closer the next time, then pulling back again... it was sweet torture, the most incredible feeling John had ever experienced.

They continued sliding against each other for what felt like an eternity.  They gazed at each other, maintaining eye contact the entire time; lips millimetres apart, not quite touching, tantalisingly close.  Finally, John couldn’t stand it anymore.  He was aching to be kissed, craving the intimacy of the sharing of breath between the two of them.  He turned his head and captured Sherlock’s lips with his own, sighing in contentment as he felt the other man respond. 

Sherlock let out a moan as he deepened the kiss, tongue seeking tongue.  Their movements accelerated and became decidedly less coordinated.  John could feel his climax approaching the point of no return, so he broke the kiss and grasped Sherlock’s face between his hands. 

“Want... to see...you...” John managed to get out before his orgasm overtook him, forcing him to close his eyes and throw his head back, clutching Sherlock close as he chanted his name over and over again.

 Sherlock shuddered against him, following in John’s wake as he breathed out, “ _John, I....I.... looooveyouuu,”_ helplessly ensnared in the chemistry of emotion and sentiment.

The two men fought to catch their breaths as they lay together afterwards, bodies and hearts entwined.  John’s fingernails lightly scraped across Sherlock’s scalp as Sherlock’s fingers traced the outline of John’s scar. 

“Your fever seems to be gone.  How do you feel?”

 Sherlock grinned into John’s chest.  “Good.  Really good.  You seem to have fucked the sickness right out of me, John.”

John smirked.  “Well, I didn’t technically...”

Sherlock waved his hand.  “Semantics.”

Silence reigned for awhile;  it was comfortable, and not at all awkward.    John continued stroking Sherlock’s head, pensively gazing into the distance as the first flush of dawn crept in, chasing away the shadows into the murky corners.

“You love me,” he said.

Sherlock’s fingers stilled.

“Yes.”

John cleared his throat.  “Thought I’d be the first one to say it.”

“You never needed to.  I always knew.”

John smiled.  “But you thought I needed to hear it from you.”

“Obviously.”

John hummed contentedly.

“Je t’adore,” he whispered into Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock tightened his embrace.  “Je t’adore aussi,” he responded.   
  
Words said, sleep swiftly took Sherlock and John.  Exhaustion and post-coital lethargy worked their magic, wrapping their somnolent cloaks around the two men.  Time slowed to a crawl.  It wouldn't last; it never did.  But for now, peace and quiet took a rare hold on the atmosphere of 221b Baker Street.  A respite, brief though it was, for the two occupants.  
  
A smile graced the lips of them both as they fell into slumber.

THE END.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: 
> 
> You are amazing, you are fantastic.
> 
> You don’t know what you do to me. There’s never been anyone like you, no one has ever loved me like you do ....
> 
> And I have never loved anyone as I love you.
> 
> I want you. I need you. I love you.
> 
> I adore you.
> 
> I adore you too.


End file.
